Clarkston had a problem; he didn't want to hear the truth, because his own truth was buried under years of dishonesty and cover-ups. Clarkston, my mother, the orderlies, and even you, the reader, may think killing is only a fantasy for me, but it is a reality. I was a murderer, and I didn't want to live with the guilt any longer, so I tried to kill myself. A smart psychotherapist would analyze the stuffing out of my suicide note, but instead, they were focused on information that didn't pertain to me.
*
Clarkston stayed with my mother inside of his office while I was rotting in the reflection room. Clarkston explained to my mother in the most uneducated and untrue fashion that I was seeking attention and testing the hospital limits. As my mother sat and listened, Clarkston said, "Your son never hallucinated, and he didn't kill anyone. Furthermore, his suicide attempt was superficial and staged to get your attention."
I think my mother knew better, but she wasn't sure. Remember, my mother had a secret, but she wasn't one hundred percent convinced that my behaviors were associated with her no-tell covert. Clarkston asked my mother if she would sign a consent form, because he wanted to talk with Doctor Sholvin, and yet again she complied.
"You can speak to anyone you want. Just help my son."
Personally, I didn't care who Clarkston spoke with, because there was only one man who could explain what was wrong with me.
*
Standing in the far corner of the reflection room, wondering when they would let me out, I was instantly brought to my knees in pain. My head was a balloon that was pumped with too much air, resulting in the worst headache ever, well not ever, but pretty close. My headache flattened me onto my back, and as I was on my back, I was propelled into a seizure. My arms and legs were thrashing in the most unnatural directions, and at the same time; my eyes spun back into my head. My tongue was hanging out of my mouth like a panting dog. With the most incoherent speech pattern, I shouted, "Help! There's too much blood!"
Blood was pouring out of my eyes, mouth, and nose, and I thought, I was going to die, again.
Clarkston and my mother arrived at the scene in enough time to witness my seizure, and my massive blood loss. However, there wasn't any blood. I wasn't bleeding. I thought I was bleeding, but I wasn't.
Through pain and agony, I heard Clarkston say, "Shawn, you are not bleeding. There is no blood."
Clarkston and his team of misfits put me in a restraint, which is the most ridiculous thing to do for a seizure victim. Their stupidity reached an all-time high when they told me to calm down.
Clarkston was the ring leader, and like an idiot, he said, "You have all of our attention now. You can stop whenever you're ready."
Still in a restraint, I realized my body wasn't going anywhere, but I could free my words.
"Take your Goddamn hands off of me! Don’t touch me with your filth!"
"I will let you go when you are calm." Clarkston replied.
Well, I gave him his wish. I calmed down, and my headache was gone. My seizure stopped, as did the blood I thought was excreting out of me. I smiled at Clarkston, and I started laughing. During my giggles, I winked at Clarkston and whispered, “I know everything you've done, and you're going to die.”
*
My mother was a total disaster after witnessing my barmy episode. Her emotions were uneasy like a Nun in a strip club. Clarkston, actually offered my mother a room at the hospital for the night, but she declined. She ended up taking a taxi home, because her car was at the house, due to riding in the ambulance. Before leaving the hospital, my mother stopped outside the reflection room, where I sat for the next three hours. She hoped to see a smile upon my face, but she didn't get one. A matter of fact, my mother didn't even get to see my face. Her last vision, before leaving the hospital, was me curled up in a fetal position, and whispering, "There's too much blood."
Sitting in the back of the taxi, my mother thought of suicide, but realized the loss would be too much for me. In a flashback form, my mother played through the prayer she said the night before, when I was passed out on the bathroom floor. After the rerun of the prayer, my mother questioned if God was truly staying away from me. My mother didn't want God involved, because she didn't understand how an omnipotent God could bring so much pain. Most of the time, my mother doubted if God existed.
My mother gazed out of the taxi's window, slowly watching each tree fade in the distance, one by one, when she asked, under her breath, if God created us from his own image, then what does that say about Him? We live within a world of murderers, pedophiles, and arsonists, so are all of them a reflection of God?
I guess my mother, and other people asking the same question, will find out in the end. Before ending this chapter, I want you to think about something. We can all agree the world consists of evil, and most of us blame dark forces. However, why don't we question God for any of the chaos? If God is omnipotent, the one and only, then he created dark forces.
Maybe the dark forces weren't cast from heaven?
Maybe the dark forces saw God for who he really was, and left on their own terms?
Maybe evil isn't what you think?
Maybe evil answered my mother's prayer?
Chapter 7
DON'T LEAVE ME
Joy wanted to get away for a while to escape the daily grind, and by the daily grind, she meant the escalating paranormal activity. I was increasing my will to communicate by the second, and it was causing upheaval for Patrick and Joy. These weren't my intentions, but nonetheless; I was creating issues, especially for Joy. I had a certain window of time to accomplish my plan, and it was closing rapidly.
*
There have been hundreds, probably thousands, of books written about haunted houses. Let me inform you; it's not the house that’s haunted. Sometimes a house may be haunted, but it's very unlikely. Allow me to explain. Spiritual energy, like psychological energy, attaches to a function or an object. An object is an inanimate commodity, for example; an object is a house, hotel, cemetery, battlefield, or even a town. It happens, but there is a slight chance a spirit will actually attach to an object. I have great reason for this. Unlike psychological energy in biological form, spiritual energy for the most part, unless they're trapped, won't waste their exertion on an object that is incapable of reciprocation. On the other hand, a function, which is a human being, has the capacity to reciprocate the release of energy. Therefore, human beings are more likely to receive the dispensation of a spirit's attachment. In Layman's terms, Patrick and Joy were haunted, not their house.
*
In Joy's request to get away from my passionate communication, Patrick booked a cabin for three nights to appease her. Patrick felt a break in the action may recharge his batteries, especially from the administrative aspect of his job. In regards to escaping the haunting, Patrick knew better.
Why do people run from their issues?
If you could see from my perspective, you would probably laugh or cry at those who run from something that is contained within. They look like a damn dog chasing its own tail. Patrick and Joy were about to venture on a merry little vacation, and I didn't like the idea of them attempting to leave.
Joy took the responsibility to stay in the house and pack, while Patrick went to the grocery store. Joy crossed off her checklist which consisted of cell phones, clothing, running sneakers, hygiene products, and fishing equipment. Her duties as the vacation organizer didn't take as long as she thought, so Joy waited patiently for Patrick to return home with the groceries. In the meantime, Patrick wasn't as quick or efficient as Joy, because I was intentionally slowing him down.
Preexisting Patrick's grocery store visit, he stopped at a gas station to fill up his SUV. After spending an astronomical amount of money on gas, Patrick went into the little convenience store and tried his luck on several lottery tickets. For most of you, it is inconceivable to anticipate when something unaccountable is about to happen. Receiving an outright dilatory second of clarity for anyone doesn't happ
en too often, and when it does, people usually miss the signs. Patrick wasn't any different when he walked into the convenience store. He figured he would mindlessly blow between ten and fifteen dollars on lottery tickets, before buying the groceries for their vacation. On the other hand, Patrick wasn't expecting his mindless purchase to turn into an intricate invasion from the darkness.
I did everything in my power to prevent Patrick and Joy from going on vacation, because their motive wasn't to get away, it was to get away from me. And I wasn't having it, period. I'll explain my logic later, but for now, just take my word.
"I'll have two of the five dollar Jack-Pot tickets please." Patrick said politely to the cashier.
"Sure thing,” the cashier replied with a customer-friendly smile.
The cashier, a younger fellow, probably twenty years old, tore the requested tickets from their perforated edges, and on the spur of the moment, stopped what he was doing. The cashier was a movie character on pause. He was in a physical and emotional trance, frozen in time like the shutter of a camera, until his arms atypically cramped in a locked position. His palms were upward and his elbows were fixed, resembling the position as if he was carrying a box, but nothing was in the cashier's hands except for the two lottery tickets that fell to the floor. Like a weight dangling from his chin, the cashier's jaw dropped, while his bottom lip was fluttering.
Patrick has seen many awe-inspiring mental health symptoms in his career, but most of his experiences have occurred in his office or a psychiatric ward of a hospital, not a public convenience store. If Patrick doesn't have jurisdiction to treat an illness, he usually lets it go. Yet, he felt the cashier required quick services.
"Sir, are you alright?"
The cashier didn't and couldn't speak, because I was in control of him, so Patrick asked again, "Sir, are you alright?"
Under my power, the cashier responded with a repetitive whisper, "You need to help her. You need to help her."
"Who do you need me to help?" Patrick responded.
Promptly, after creating my dire connection with Patrick, I released my grip on the cashier, and all of his newfangled behavior stopped. The cashier didn't remember anything that happened during my reign. He bent down to pick up the lottery tickets that he dropped on the floor, looked at Patrick, and asked, "Anything else today?"
Patrick paused for a moment and analyzed the disconnect he just observed. Something felt unnatural to Patrick, which was exactly what I was trying to accomplish. Patrick saw daylight, or should I say darkness, especially when the cashier didn't remember the episode. Patrick knew he didn't witness psychological symptoms. He witnessed spiritual communication, my communication.
Patrick's involvement with the cashier, or me; however, you wish to look at it, played through his head like a broken record. And because of my successful message, Patrick forgot all about the grocery store.
When he returned home empty handed, Joy asked, "Where are the groceries?"
"Oh my god, Joy; I'm sorry. I’m such an ass-crack.”
"What is wrong with you?" Joy asked as she exercised her concern.
Patrick was in an elevated state of confusion; Joy didn't like or understand it, but I was delighted. I was jubilant because I saw Patrick's wheels spinning in the right direction.
Out of the blue, Patrick said, "I’m supposed to help her."
Joy threw both of her arms out to the side and spoke in an animated demeanor.
"You are not making any sense right now. Who the heck are you supposed to help?"
"I am supposed to help her, the cashier told me so." Lucid replied.
Joy wasn't getting any answers, and the only thing she was getting was more irritated. Joy slid on her shoes, got her purse, and said to Patrick, "I want you to stay here, and figure out what’s wrong. I'm going to the grocery store."
*
Thirty minutes later
When Joy returned home with the groceries, Patrick was standing in the same spot.
Immediately, Joy asked, "Are you well enough to go to the cabin, sweetheart?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." Patrick answered.
He liberated himself from the dense fog he was under, packed what he needed for the vacation, and in ho-hum fashion, departed for the cabin.
The cabin was four hours from their home, and historically, both are fond of road trips together. On this particular trip, their communication was sour, because they were choking on silence. Communication is usually the initial aspect of a relationship that goes astray when something is wrong, although it should be the first facet that goes without separation. I've seen many people lose touch with themselves and their partners when the outside world intrudes on their happiness. Their true character materializes, not when everything is roses, but when life is squeezing lemon juice into their eye-balls. Patrick's and Joy's relationship was sound, but the smell of tension was in the air, in the form of my burning desire to get a second chance.
A few hours ticked off the clock, and Patrick and Joy were driving through the mountains of Pennsylvania.
"My god, the scenery is so beautiful." Joy said, as Patrick concentrated on the winding back road.
"The mountains are beautiful, but not as beautiful as you are sweetheart." Patrick playfully, but honestly replied.
Precipitously, Joy didn't respond to Patrick's banter, because their vehicle fiercely sputtered, bucking the both of them.
"Holy shit!” Patrick shouted.
Neither Patrick nor Joy knew anything regarding the mechanistic process of a vehicle, so they were forced to pull off to the side of the road, and call for a tow-truck. Patrick found a gravel area under gigantic pine trees to park their SUV. The gravel area looked like a spot for hunters, fishermen, or sexually charged teenagers. Obviously, Patrick and Joy weren't there for any of those purposes, but it was the safest spot they could find.
The mechanic arrived nearly ninety minutes later. During those ninety minutes, Patrick tried turning over the ignition several times, but he didn't have any luck. Patrick and Joy were alone and bored in the middle of nowhere, so it was the ideal time for them to discuss the off-color situation that happened at the convenience store. Patrick explained everything, truthfully, especially the supposition of spiritual communication. Joy thought this is one hell of a time and place to be talking about the supernatural, considering the dark and desolate back-wood area in-which they were stranded.
Does the situation feel like a setup?
The answer is yes, because it was a setup.
It wasn't gratifying, the two people I was dependent on the most were running from me. I improvised to make sure my agenda stayed as planned. The humorous part, for me at least, Patrick and Joy actually thought something was wrong with their vehicle.
When the mechanic arrived, he confessed, "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here. I've had a busy night.”
Patrick and Joy didn't mind waiting, and accepted the mechanic's apology. The mechanic, whose name tag read JIM, thoroughly inspected the broken-down SUV. Expecting a million things in error with the vehicle, Patrick and Joy were surprised by the mechanic's evaluation.
"There’s nothing wrong with your vehicle. It's in tip-top shape."
"Are you sure?" Patrick asked.
"I promise you; she'll start right up."
Patrick got into his SUV and turned the ignition over, and it started. The mechanic collected his pay, received a thank you, for doing nothing if I must say, and then left. Patrick was happy because the vehicle started; Joy was happy she got to leave the back-woods, and I was happy, because Patrick and Joy decided to cancel their vacation.
I got home much faster than them, with my extra time; I decided to give Patrick and Joy a welcome-home present, or a token of my appreciation for not leaving. I made sure all the clocks in the house were stuck at two thirty. Furthermore, I meticulously placed pictures of Joy's younger-years all over their bed. Last but not least, I shattered the large wall mirror that hung in their bedroom. Patrick and Joy
didn't bother calling the police, because they knew my gifts weren't done by an intruder.
One last thing, Patrick’s SUV broke down on Route 230.
Chapter 8
THE APPARITION
At the hospital, my psychological stability continued to decline. I was depreciating as a human being, and it was absolutely dismal to observe. I was spending my days talking to myself, huddled in the corner of my room at Mountain Springs Psychiatric Hospital. There were moments when I thought I was going to die, because I was certain the excessive blood loss would be the end of me. However, the staff members, although I didn't like most of them, made me feel somewhat composed when they said, "There is no blood Shawn. You are hallucinating, and your troubles are only in your mind." Besides those words, I was crestfallen, miserable, and wanted to end the life of Doctor Clarkston, and my own.
Because I refused to work with Clarkston, he eventually transferred me to Doctor Bricker.
*
Doctor Bricker was my new therapist. He was a better therapist than Clarkston, and a much better person. Bricker had practiced psychology for many years, and he wasn't the type to internalize a patient's transference, unlike Clarkston. Clarkston took everything a patient said to heart, because he had personal doubts of his own. I felt comfortable with Doctor Bricker, despite not being the right man for the job; I enjoyed being around him, because his intentions were good.
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